#azurelacrima

He's as silent as he ever is, a ghost that you're not entirely quite sure why you are so attached to. He has wrought damage to you, to your friends, and to cross this line means to cross your friends - your family.

They would never forgive you, not for this. Not for him. Never for him.

You yourself don't understand it. This - this attraction you feel, to a man that has hunted you down for sport, has made you scream awake in the dead of night.

He wakes you still, in the crescent moon, beneath the smog filled skies that seem so different since you stand beneath them with him. He wakes you still but this is with softness, leather gloves upon the crown of your head, the softness of lips against your brow. He treats you as if you are precious, a treasure he hasn't quite figured out how to hold properly.

You swallow your hesitancy, the way you wish to tell him that you are human, that you've sat in his chair and he has wrenched a scream from you that should tell him you are human, as much as he is.

Instead, he laughs, he huddles close, and for all that he is the same size, broad shoulders, lithe legs, he is an all encompassing being, he makes you feel small, vulnerable.

You swing between liking it and feeling like a prey animal drowning slowly in your own blood.

He calls you his, his Angus, his Sun, his Compass - as if he is standing on an horizon and you are the only thing that has ever been able to direct him.

He hands you a knife, and you hand him your hands. He calls you his darling and your breath comes in fits and starts. His hands, his leather gloves are sticky, tacky with blood, and you know it leaves marks upon your face as he cradles your jaw. His breath is stale, coffee and peppermint gum. You smell only him, leather, gunpowder, cinnamon.

You had laughed the once. That such a great monster beneath the bed of the agencies had smelt like cinnamon. Now, even a mere whiff of it has you weak at the knees, longing. He has turned you inside out.

You are a hollow vessel for his being, you slip inside of him as if you are two sides of the coins. As if he is the moon and you are the sun.

He kisses you, and you're never quite sure if it's a benediction, or an injustice.

His lips taste like blood, and you tremble beneath the weight of it, the knowledge of what he has done. In the darkness, even with the blood, it is easy to not think. It is in the light of the morning, as he slips away, that makes it hard to think of why your mouth - your face, your hands, your bed - is scarlet with blood, dried, hands upon hands upon hands-

He comes to you in the night. He should not, but you let him anyway.

You're never quite sure if it's a plea for help.